


Introspect

by Yùu (Yuutfa)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-16
Updated: 2012-07-16
Packaged: 2017-11-10 02:21:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/461206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuutfa/pseuds/Y%C3%B9u
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>'If he stopped talking, if this adoration and need faded, if this stream dried up then he’d simply cease to exist.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>There was no John Watson without Sherlock Holmes.'</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Introspect

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in one shot without edits as a challenge, to prove that I can write porn when I feel like it. This was the result.

Long, thin fingers flitted across the soft expanse of his stomach and it took all of his willpower not to shiver at the touch; too cold on his heated skin, too sensitive to touch, not enough. John’s eyelids fluttered shut and his moan was swallowed by the hungry kiss of his lover. With hands lifted, his nails marked the other’s back, dragging down in angry lines of red. He needed more contact than this, he was rebuffed, the other was unyielding. The tongue that slipped into his mouth was forceful and demanding. Air was a commodity that he didn’t wish for but needed.

 

They parted much too soon.

 

And when his eyes opened, ice blue stared back. The pale flesh was flushed with exertion, the same tint it held when he leapt from the rooftops of London. At the junction between his neck and shoulder, John felt a rush of pride. A deep red mark, tinted purple, a guaranteed bruise that would tell the world of their activities. His, the mark said. Only his.

 

“Sherlock,” John said, his voice breathless. He was rewarded with another kiss, softer and accented with a nip to his bottom lip, John found himself chasing the retreating mouth.

 

The fingers, those nimble, damnable fingers dipped lower. Past the navel, lightly skimming the coarse bed of pubic hair and bypassing his arousal. The cold touch turned hot, the pads now searing as they brushed his inner thigh. John parted his legs wider.

 

A low guttural groan could be heard and before John could react, his mouth was captured. Taken once, twice, thrice, until his chest heaved and his lungs begged for air. Sherlock didn’t care and therefore, John didn’t either. Blinded by the haze of lust and desperation, John welcomed his demise, revelling in this indulgence before his world collapsed around him. Nothing existed but this, time had narrowed down to this singular event.

 

He was perfectly fine with that.

 

Underneath the metallic taste of blood from his split lip, the faint, lingering sweetness of jam remained at the tip of his tongue. Memories of a shared piece of toast and coffee with no sugar were distant in the back of his mind. Breakfast felt like days ago, though in reality it had only been an hour. Time had warped and distorted the moment Sherlock kissed him.

 

And how a single kiss could escalate to this was beyond him.

 

He supposed it wasn’t the point, now that they were both naked and ravished. How debauched did he look? Was he desirable in Sherlock’s eyes? Slick fingers teased his hole and John had found his answer.

 

There was no pretence of worry, no banal words of reassurance. The first digit sank in one fluid motion. Gasps for air, heated moans and the thrashing of his hips, John’s hands came to the sheets, gripping tight as if they could anchor his body to the Earth. His mind had already been lost, if he let go then certainly his body would follow.

 

There was a firm hand that pushed down on his stomach and John wished that it was move lower, touch him where he needed it most. His pleas were unheard. How fast would he come apart if Sherlock willed it? If those fingers curled around his length, if those digits worked him with that calculating precision he was known for, how long would he last?

 

Two fingers joined the first, stretching him open in earnest, working with such determination. Impatience, desire, desperation, these sensations bounded off Sherlock in waves. His head lowered, teeth marred tanned flesh. Nips, bites, marks of possession littered his chest, neck, collarbone. John’s hand lifted, cupped the back of Sherlock’s head and breathed in smell of sex and musk. Deep groans filled the air, he wasn’t sure whose moans were whose.He wouldn’t last very long at all, John thought to himself as he canted and rocked his hips to the rhythm.   

 

The sensation of being opened and filled simultaneously left John panting and cursing. Mindless pleas leaked from his swollen lips, fevered whines continued to be whispered; a stream of consciousness, a reminder that he was still alive and breathing. If he stopped talking, if this adoration and need faded, if this stream dried up then he’d simply cease to exist.

 

There was no John Watson without Sherlock Holmes.

 

The fingers were removed and finally,  _finally!_  He was filled. White exploded from behind his closed eyes and a curse was uttered next to his ear. A low, husky baritone breathed and gasped beside him.

 

“Brilliant.”

 

John felt his heart swell with pride.

 

His hands released the sheets, pulling Sherlock down and flush against his chest as they began to move in tandem. Sweat dripped from Sherlock’s body to his, slickened the movements, quickened their frenzied pace. Those pale hands —though not so pale anymore, gripped his hips tightly. Their carnal dance was rough and swift and it was one they had done so many times before. Higher and higher they climbed together, to the apex of pleasure and rapidly surging to the end.

 

John’s hand dropped to his arousal, closing his fingers around and beginning to stroke. Not long now.

 

Three, two, one.

 

He felt the world crash around him and for those few blissful seconds, nothing existed. He stopped breathing, his body disappeared and he was nothing.

 

The white faded and air rushed back into his lungs. He was alive and he was back. Sherlock was pulling out and gazing down upon him with a look of wonder. A new experiment, an anomaly that never ceased to fascinate him.

 

John simply smiled and pulled him down for a kiss.

 

“Smug git,” he said fondly.

 


End file.
